/fdata%2F0606912%2Favatar.png){kind=avatar}
A Voice (texte automatique)
Dusk, and something blooming.
To run away in blank stares, not wild—and with lost looks
to go up rivers, uncatchable—and an echo of torture's screams
that as long as it’s heard calls back—Buds break the bark—
offered to ravaged bodies—Rising, rising,
the river that does not suffer dikes is rising—Wild, quiet—
women singing together—«Beneath the underdog», and is dead.
Awfully the killing blends with music's rapture.
A voice.
Thou, tame flowers, born and grown—Falter,
rumble as crammed thunders—Wield your sleep,
shatter your eyes, hear your hearts beating—Look
mirror eyes flash in faces—Forsake
rusty lair of fear, embrace scented shoulders, kiss
rosy petals of face, listen to solos, dispel remembrance,
sink, come to the bottom—Thou
will find something like a different ken—
Do not dread to run, to sing, to embrace—
Thou, that alone swim afar in silence—decay, wane—
die.
(Spring, 1979)
